


dead men have no tails

by Duskglass



Series: harry potter & the ridiculous fix-its [3]
Category: Harry Potter (books)
Genre: (but i'm attributing any legal inaccuracies to wizards being Ridiculous), (no sirius!! when they said 'be gay do crimes' this was not what they meant!!), (there's no 'onscreen' violence but a murder scene is described), (wormtail does not), Aftermath of Violence, Canon Divergence, Crack Treated Seriously, Fix-It, Gen, Harry’s POV, M/M, Mad-Eye Moody POV, Multi POV, Outsider POV (wolfstar), PoA AU, Post-Azkaban, Sirius & Remus live, Smart Sirius, Wolfstar Bingo 2020, animagi, do not repost to other sites/apps, sort of a casefic??, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27845750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duskglass/pseuds/Duskglass
Summary: in which a long-dead man is found freshly murdered in Ron Weasley's bed, Harry adopts the Grim as his new pet, Snape is Definitely Not Afraid Of Dogs, and Remus Lupin is not being paid nearly enough to deal with this. fortunately, aurors Moody and Shacklebolt are on the case!!((or: sirius succeeds in killing peter on halloween and... somehow everything turns out for the better))
Relationships: Harry & Ron & Hermione, Harry & Sirius, Mad-Eye & Kingsley, Remus/Sirius
Series: harry potter & the ridiculous fix-its [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994197
Comments: 11
Kudos: 135
Collections: Wolfstar Bingo 2020





	dead men have no tails

**Author's Note:**

> wolfstar bingo prompt fill: 'Animagi' (this one got longer than anticipated so I'm splitting it into chapters)   
>  (all works in this series are standalones! and a special shoutout to all my trans readers; you're amazing & wonderful)  
>    
> 

In the days following Hallowe'en of his third year at Hogwarts, Harry will wonder why he _didn't_ anticipate some sort of disaster after the Feast-- considering the attack on Mrs Norris last year, and Quirrel's troll the one before, he probably ought to have been more on guard-- especially now that he's supposedly got a deranged mass murderer after him (as though Voldemort weren't bad enough). Perhaps it's a sign that he's really not cut out for Divination after all, that he missed such an obvious pattern, as it's getting rather ridiculous-- he tries to explain his frustration to Hermione, but she gives him a shrewdly concerned look and tells him it's definitely not healthy to have such a blase attitude towards people trying to kill him. She's probably right (when isn't she?) but Harry can hardly go about his life expecting assailants around every corner. It's not as though it's _his_ fault so many people are obsessed with his death.

...Only, this time it's a little harder to convince himself of all that, seeing as this year someone _did_ actually die-- a bloody and brutal murder right within the third year boys' dorm in Gryffindor Tower, only a scant few metres from Harry's own bed, like a scene out of one of those highly sensationalised true-crime television programmes Aunt Petunia sometimes watches (when Vernon and Dudley are out and she's forgot Harry is in the house). But unlike the telly, where nothing too graphic is ever actually shown, the real-life experience has no filter to spare him all the grisly details.

Harry would be lying if he said he wasn't affected by the murder at all (for one thing, his old nightmares of his parents vanishing in a flash of green light have returned with a vengeance and taken on a far more grisly cast, even though logically he knows that Voldemort wouldn't have used a knife) but he's far more preoccupied with the bizarre _mystery_ of it all than he is with any concerns for his own safety-- for the dead man was neither student nor staff, and no one can begin to explain who had killed him or why, or how either the murderer or the victim had managed to get into the locked and password-protected Tower... and strangest of all, everyone seems to be under the impression that this particular intruder has somehow died _twice_.

And, as always, Harry knows he won't be able to rest until he gets to the bottom of it.

  
[ Sunday, 31 October 1993 ]

It's actually Ron who finds the body-- shortly after the three of them have returned to the common room from the Hallowe'en Feast.

Harry hadn't expected to enjoy the festivities this year, between his disappointment over being the only third-year not allowed to visit Hogsmeade the day before, and the ongoing Scabbers-vs-Crookshanks feud that has Ron and Hermione at one another's throats-- but Harry's friends had managed to set the latter aside for long enough to reassure him that they'll bring back loads of Honeydukes candy for him to try (which Harry appreciates, even if it's not be the same as a proper visit of his own).

But by the time they got back, Hogsmeade could hardly have been further from Harry's mind-- tea with Lupin was a pleasant and engaging surprise, all-too-swiftly disrupted by Snape's arrival bearing the smoking gobletful of mystery potion. As the evening wore on, Harry told them all about it, and it felt just like old times with the three of them trading theories about what Snape might be up to over several games of chess (which both Harry and Hermione lost rather spectacularly to Ron). And all through dinner, they surreptitiously snuck glances at Professor Lupin, and broke into a fresh round of speculative whispers when he excused himself early.

Professor Lupin didn't show at breakfast on Hallowe'en either, nor was he in his office when they 'just happened' to walk past its closed door on the way back to the common room-- so it comes as a relief when they arrive at the Feast that evening and see him at the high table, even if he still looks rather more sickly than usual. Harry grudgingly concedes to Hermione that _maybe_ the sickness wasn't caused by Snape's potion, which was perhaps medicinal after all, just as Lupin had claimed. Even though Snape seems to hate Lupin as much as he hates Harry, Hermione makes a very good point that Snape wouldn't try to murder a colleague right under Dumbledore's nose. Probably. He had somehow put up with _Lockhart_ for a full year, after all, and surely Snape couldn't have found some justification for hating Lupin that much more than he hated Lockhart.

Still, their debate over how far Snape might actually go to get the Defence job (and whether or not this is his sole reason for hating Professor Lupin) lasts them all the way back up to the Common Room-- Harry and Hermione start across the room towards Hermione's usual corner, but Ron falls silent and hangs back. 'Er. I've got to go give Scabbers his rat tonic,' he says-- Hermione's brow crinkles, and Harry tenses up (he really doesn't want to get caught in the middle of another row, especially when the night had been going so well)-- but then Ron continues, 'I'll just keep him up in the dorm tonight; it's a bit noisy down here and I don't want to stress him out.'

'Good idea,' says Harry, relaxing again.

'I might be a while... I brought some roasted pumpkin seeds from the Feast since he usually loves them.' Ron holds up a napkin folded into a small bundle.

'Right-- we'll just be over there.' Harry nods towards the table spread with Hermione's books and notes. Hermione awkwardly attempts a smile, and Ron (also awkwardly) nods and turns towards the stairs.

It could have gone worse, Harry supposes, but the easy lighthearted mood of their earlier conversation has broken. Hermione picks up one of her textbooks, idly flipping through the pages.

'How is, er--' Harry squints at the title. 'What's Muggle Studies like, anyway? Learning about them as a Muggleborn, I mean.'

Hermione opens her mouth, but she doesn't get a chance to answer because that's when the scream echoes down the stair-- 'AAAAAAUGH!!!'

Harry turns at once and sprints towards the steps, wand in hand and Hermione close at his heels. 'RON!' he shouts, racing up the stairs.

He rounds the final turn of the spiral to find Ron stood in the doorway, white as a sheet beneath his freckles.

'It-- it was like that when I opened the door,' Ron squeaks. 'I didn't-- I _swear_ I didn't do anything; it wasn't me!'

Harry pushes past him, and stops short only just inside the room, staring at the bloody scene before them in disbelief.

The dead man is slumped across Ron's bed, with a foot-long kitchen knife protruding from his chest amongst a flurry of other stab wounds. The four-poster's drapes are ripped down, and feathers from the slashed pillow and duvet are scattered across the bloodstained sheets, while Ron's trunk had evidently been upended in the struggle, sat on its side with its contents strewn across the floor.

'Ex _cuse_ me, out of the way; I am Head Boy!' a familiar pompous voice declares-- Percy Weasley has pushed his way to the top of the stairs, though for a moment he goes slack-jawed at the grisly scene within the dorm. Then he draws himself up to his full height and barks, 'Everyone is to return to the common room and stay there, _quietly_ , until further notice-- Prefects, I am counting on you to maintain order. I must go find Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore at once.'

With that, Percy turns to go, and the stairwell erupts into even more chaos, at which point Harry grabs Ron and Hermione both by the elbows and ducks into the alcove at the top of the spiral, shushing them before they can speak. After a minute, once the noise has subsided, Harry slips back towards the door, ignoring Hermione's attempt to grab the sleeve of his robes.

The dead man-- for he is far too old to be a student-- is clothed in ill-fitting greyish robes even shabbier than Lupin's, his fair hair lank and his pale skin sallow and sickly. His face is frozen in an expression of terror, and the blood is still wet.

'Harry, what are you _doing_ ,' Hermione hisses, as Harry steps closer to the body in morbid fascination, his heart racing in his chest.

'Who d'you reckon he is?' he asks quietly. Ron, very pale beneath his freckles, shrugs.

' _Honestly_ , Harry,' Hermione continues, 'whoever did this could still be here!'

The thought hadn't occurred to Harry, and he wishes Hermione hadn't said anything. 'Where?' he asks with false confidence, casting a pointed look around the empty room. 'Hiding under one of the beds?'

At this, a faint whine issues from the general vicinity of Harry's four-poster. The three of them freeze-- Ron is white as a sheet, while Hermione has both hands clapped over her mouth in shock.

' _Lumos_ ,' Harry whispers, his pulse thundering in his ears as he bends down to shine his wandlight under the bed.

He freezes, staring straight into the pale eyes of a hulking black shape that looks rather like--

' _Grim_ ,' Ron squeaks, scrambling backwards-- at exactly the same time as Hermione says, 'Oh, it's just a dog.'

Harry's shoulders sag, his knees suddenly weak with relief, and he sits with a bump. Surely, if Ron and Hermione can _also_ see the dog, it cannot possibly be a real Grim... and, upon closer examination, the dog appears at least as spooked as they are, possibly injured on top of that. Surely no death omen would look so _scared_ , so lost and alone...

He holds out his hand (ignoring Ron's strangled gasp) and gives the dog an encouraging smile. 'Hey, boy... it's okay; we're not going to hurt you.'

The dog whines, and moves forward to press his nose against Harry's palm-- but then (before Harry can begin to properly wonder where the dog came from and how he managed to end up under _his_ bed, let alone what to do about him) there is a rush of footsteps on the stairs, and McGonagall and Dumbledore enter the room, stopping short as they take in the bloody scene.

'Merlin's sweaty bollocks,' McGonagall swears, slipping deeper into her native Scottish brogue, 'is that _Peter Pettigrew_?'

'It does certainly seem that way,' says Dumbledore gravely. He has bent to examine the body, and lifts the man's-- Pettigrew's-- right hand, which is missing its index finger, the stump long since healed over. 'Very troubling indeed. I shall have to contact Alastor at once-- if you'll excuse me, Minerva...' 

Harry's mind has gone into overdrive, his thoughts racing as Dumbledore straightens up-- _who could this 'Peter Pettigrew' be, that has Dumbledore so troubled and McGonagall looking like a Muggle who's just seen a ghost?_ \-- only to be interrupted by Percy, who had returned to the room just as Dumbledore left, looking rather out of breath-- and he spots his younger brother at once, still sat against the wall near the door. 'Ronald Weasley!' he snaps with a very Mrs-Weasley-ish scowl that makes Ron shrink in on himself. 'What in Merlin's name are you doing up here? You were told _quite clearly_ to wait in the common room!' 

This (unfortunately) draws McGonagall's attention to the trio, and she has evidently recovered from her shock enough to give them one of her usual thin-lipped stares. 'Mr Potter, Miss Granger-- what is the meaning of this?'

With Ron and Hermione both giving him helpless _this was your idea_ stares, Harry blurts the first thing that comes to mind-- 'I was worried about my dog.' He gestures to the bed, under which the dog had retreated once again as soon as the Professors appeared.

McGonagall scowls at Harry. 'Dogs are not on the list of permitted student familiars, Mr Potter. And I believe you already have an owl?'

'Well-- yes, I know, _but_ \-- he looked so cold and miserable, shivering outside in the rain, and it was _really obvious_ no one was taking care of him because he's so _thin_ , and...'

McGonagall stoops to peer under the bed, and sighs-- the dog _does_ look severely malnourished, after all, his shaggy coat doing little to hide his jutting bones. 'It didn't occur to you to take the animal to Hagrid?'

'Er,' Harry says, as the dog lets out a faint whine. 'It was already rather late when I found him, and I didn't think I was supposed to be walking across the grounds at night? In case Sirius Black showed up, I mean-- since he's supposed to be after me and all.'

'I see,' McGonagall says. 'Yes, that's very wise of you, Mr Potter. Now, about the dog--'

'I've been calling him Grim,' Harry says, since that's the first thing that comes to mind. The dog gives him a funny look, which Harry files away for later. He puts a protective hand on the dog's flank, and in a stroke of brilliance he adds, 'You know, because Professor Trelawney keeps saying I'm going to die in various horrible and painful ways, and having Grim around has made me feel loads better, since of course he's just a normal dog even if he looks a bit scary.'

As if to back him up, the dog leans into his side, licking the back of his free hand and giving another long mournful whine. Professor McGonagall's nostrils flare as she takes a very deep breath. Harry had noticed before that McGonagall dislikes Trelawney (and, specifically, her apparent fondness for dramatic death predictions); this reaction only confirms it.

'Professor McGonagall?' someone else interrupts from behind Percy, before McGonagall can answer-- Harry recognises the voice as Lee Jordan's. 'Dumbledore said to tell you that he's just met with the Aurors; they'll be up to see the body as soon as all of the students have finished evacuating.' Shifting to the side a little, Harry notices Lee craning his head around the doorway, as though trying to get a better look-- a fact which isn't lost on McGonagall either.

'Thank you, Mr Jordan,' she says pointedly; 'you may return to the Common Room.' Once Lee has withdrawn, McGonagall turns back to Harry. 'Well, Mr Potter-- I suppose we will have to discuss this matter later. At present, I must ask the three of you-- and the dog-- to accompany Mr Weasley to the Hospital Wing.' She indicates Percy with a sharp nod. 'I'm sure this has been a terrible shock for all of you; Madam Pomfrey will most likely want to keep you through the night.'

Percy looks almost as disappointed as Harry feels at being sent away from the action (as unsettling as the scene is, Harry can't bear the thought of _not_ knowing what had happened here). 'Professor,' Percy begins, puffing out his chest self-importantly, 'I thought the Aurors may wish to interview me, as I was one of the first to--'

'If that is the case, Mr Weasley, I am sure that they will request a meeting with you later, after they have finished making their preliminary observations here. For now, however, these three must be escorted to the infirmary, and it is imperative that _all_ other students relocate to the Great Hall and remain there until further notice. Your presence will be required there, to aid in keeping order.'

Percy makes a valiant attempt at concealing his disappointment. 'Understood, Professor.' He turns to Harry, Ron and Hermione. 'Come along, you three-- we must go quickly, so as to not keep the Aurors waiting.'

With Professor McGonagall watching, Harry doesn't dare try to slip away again; instead he tugs gently at the scruff of the dog's neck with a quiet _come on boy_ , and starts towards the door. To his relief, the dog comes quietly, falling into step at his side. Hermione and Ron follow as well, Ron shooting nervous glances at the dog as though afraid that he might suddenly cause some sort of grave catastrophe to befall them. Hermione eyes Ron sceptically in turn, but doesn't comment.

The dog-- Grim, as Harry supposes he's now to be called-- is even larger than he'd first appeared while huddled under the bed, and even more disturbingly thin. His shoulder is at a comfortable height for Harry to rest his hand on as they walk, and he notices that his hand is shaking so he focuses on the textures beneath his palm-- he can feel the bumps of each individual vertebra beneath his fingertips, the shifting of jutting bones and hard wiry muscle beneath the shaggy matted fur. Grim stays very close to him as they descend the spiral staircase, frequently brushing up against Harry's hip as though he's afraid Harry might vanish and leave him stranded alone. Harry has to agree-- there's a certain comfort in the solidity of the dog at his side.

On their way across the common room, they pass by Dumbledore and Lupin (the latter of whom looks even more pale and sickly than he did at the feast) who are engaged in a hushed conversation with two strangers in travelling cloaks-- presumably the 'aurors'. The pair of strangers couldn't be more different from one another: the taller of the two is a handsome and soft-spoken black man with close-cropped hair, while the shorter is scarred and grizzled, his missing eye replaced with an unsettling magical prosthetic that twirls independently of his remaining natural one. Grim eyes this gathering warily, and keeps Harry and the others between himself and the four adults, remaining very tense until they have exited through the portrait hole and reached the far end of the corridor beyond.

'What's an Auror?' asks Harry, once they have turned the corner out of sight of the Fat Lady.

'Ah yes, I suppose you wouldn't know, being raised by Muggles,' says Percy, in a tone he probably doesn't mean to be condescending but which comes across as such anyway. 'The Aurors are a division of the DMLE, specialising in the identification and capture of wizards who have used magic to directly harm or abuse other wizards, or who have committed severe offences against Muggles, or otherwise engage in the most dangerous categories of illegal or restricted spellwork.'

'Er,' says Harry, also unsure what 'DMLE' might stand for.

'Wizard coppers,' Hermione translates quietly. 'They work under the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement-- or DMLE-- which also encompasses the entire court system, as well as Mr Weasley's Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office and the Azkaban Oversight Committee...' She frowns. 'It's _really_ quite an outdated and deeply biased system, and according to what I've read about Azkaban in particular, wizarding prisons sound like a _massive_ human rights violation...' Hermione speeds ahead to walk alongside Percy, her thick cloud of dark hair bouncing on each step. 'Percy, have the International Confederation of Wizards ever agreed to abide by the Geneva Conventions? Or at least developed a similar set of laws of their own?'

Percy peers down at her, utterly bewildered. 'The... er, what?'

Hermione draws in a deep breath, and launches into an explanation of Muggle International Human Rights Laws, which as far as Harry can tell are far more comprehensive than the wizarding equivalent (not that this is a difficult benchmark to achieve, seeing as the wizarding world's acknowledgement of basic human rights is... apparently all but nonexistent). But before Hermione can get fully warmed up on the topic, they have arrived at the Hospital Wing, and Percy seems more than glad to hand them off to Madam Pomfrey and bow out of the conversation-- Percy speeds off, mumbling indistinctly about McGonagall's instructions and needing to head straight to the Great Hall, though Harry can tell from the pinched frown on Hermione's face that she has filed the subject away for later, and will no doubt be spending many a library session looking into it.

But the whole issue _does_ get Harry thinking-- of the soul-sucking terror he feels in the presence of even a _single_ Dementor, let alone a whole prison full of them, and of the pictures of Sirius Black printed in the Daily Prophet, his hair a tangled elbow-length mess and his face reduced to something grotesque and skeletal, more like a corpse than a living man. Did _anyone_ deserve to be treated that way, even a murderer as terrible as Black...?

Grim seems to sense his uncertainty, and pushes his nose into Harry's palm, and Harry lets out a deep shaky breath and rubs the dog's ears. They're both safe; it's all going to be okay.

\---

Rufus Scrimgeour, current Head of the DMLE's Auror Division, has been covertly trying to force Mad-Eye Moody into early retirement (or at least a conveniently out-of-the-way desk job) for the past five years, and Moody knows he's been thinking about it since the day he took the top job-- a job which Moody himself had turned down, because _he_ never became an auror to sit in a nice cushy office and give orders to a bunch of jumped-up rookies. He's here to catch wizards who use their magic to maim and kill, to bring justice to their victims, and he's damned good at it.

The problem is, Moody is sometimes a little bit _too_ good at his job. Sometimes, the pursuit of Justice means going after people in positions of power, people who give nice generous donations to Mungo's or other charitable causes. Moody doesn't give a shit about that, though; a killer is a killer, even when they hold high rank within the Ministry... or even if they wear an Auror's badge themselves. So Moody knows Scrimgeour would love him out of the way, and his most recent act of sabotage seems to have finally done the trick, given him enough of a case against _crazy old Mad-Eye_ to leave the Department with no choice but to force his resignation.

People call him paranoid, but it isn't paranoia when they really _are_ out to get you.

So, Moody is more or less supposed to be sat on his arse uselessly twiddling his thumbs while he waits for the review commission's final judgement to fall. But, technically, he's not out the door yet, so when he received the urgent Patronus-message directly from Albus Dumbledore about a murder at the school, he grabbed his cloak and passed the message on to Kingsley Shacklebolt (one of the only other Aurors on the force with a proper sense of integrity) and responded at once to the call.

It's the perfect case, too-- fascinating, a puzzle truly worthy of the likes of Mad-Eye Moody. A man murdered nearly twelve years to the day after he was first declared dead, found within a locked and secure area, no witnesses and no sign of the killer, no telling how either of them got in-- or why the crime would happen _here_ of all places, on one of the only nights of term when the tower would be completely empty with all the students down at the Hallowe'en Feast (this last being either a very fortunate coincidence or a deliberate plot).

Moody watches through the walls as the last three students are escorted down from the Scene, along with one large black dog (curious, Mad-Eye cannot recall dogs being allowed as pets while he was in school). He memorises the faces of the kids-- Harry Potter he recognises at once, followed by a lanky pale boy with red hair and freckles, and a black girl with copious amounts of dark brown hair (her presence is also curious, as they'd been up in one of the boys' dorms). All three of them (and the dog, for that matter) appear to be in varying degrees of shock; Moody will have to question these students, but better to save it for later, once they've calmed down.

Albus and Kingsley have been going over the school's security measures while they wait; Kingsley diligently takes down notes, though really it only confirms what they'd already known. The wards on the grounds are substantial in their own right, and all points of entry are currently guarded by dementors (a resoundingly terrible idea; the creatures hadn't managed to keep Black _inside_ Azkaban so clearly Scrimgeour and Fudge are idiots to think the horrid creatures will somehow keep Black _out_ of the school if he wants in, a fact which Scrimgeour hadn't thanked Moody for pointing out)... though with a perimeter that large and bordered by wilderness on most sides, and considering how old the castle itself is, Moody knows there will be exploitable gaps there. 

The more compelling mystery is that of Gryffindor Tower-- only one point of entry, guarded by a password system and a sentient portrait (also terrible security, though Moody supposes it must serve well enough if your goal is only to keep the kids from other houses out)-- but the Fat Lady (is that her actual name? _really_ , Albus?) had reported that no one at all had entered or left between the start of the Feast and the students' return. The individual dorm itself also has a locking door, though Moody won't know until he's questioned the boy who found the body whether the room's residents had actually kept it locked, so for the moment he will assume not. Yet at least two intruders had got in, and the killer(s) had evidently got back _out_ as well, leaving behind one mystery corpse.

Peter Pettigrew. Moody turns his regular eye to look at Lupin (his magical one still tracking the students across the common room). Remus Lupin was called in to help confirm Pettigrew's identity, as they were once friends in school and Pettigrew has no surviving family left in Britain. It must be a terrible shock for him, to hear his presumed-dead friend had somehow been alive all these years-- Lupin is staring blankly at the wall, his face haggard and his eyes circled by dark rings, a sickly greyish tinge to his skin. He hardly seems to be listening at all.

Pettigrew's reported 'death' back in '81 had always smelled fishy to Moody-- what sort of blasting curse completely incinerates the densest parts of the victim's body yet leaves behind one perfectly intact finger as the only identifiable fragment?-- but the case had been declared Closed before Moody had the chance to investigate for himself, and then there simply hadn't been time to look into it amidst all the other Death Eater cases. By the time things had died down enough that Moody had time to spare for suspicious hastily-closed cases, Black's wand had been destroyed and all of the witnesses to the crime had been obliviated. 

This was all according to regulation, of course-- all of the witnesses had been Muggle (and therefore the obliviations were strictly necessary in accordance with the International Statute of Secrecy), while the wands of certain criminal classes (those whose sentences include a provision against any future wand use, which by definition is always included alongside an Azkaban life sentence) are customarily snapped and incinerated upon the guilty party's conviction. However, the Black file contained hardly any records from the crime scene, and there was no indication that _Priori Incantantem_ had ever been performed upon Black's wand before its destruction. Moody has always been a details man, and even though he hadn't necessarily doubted Black's guilt, the fact remained that there was no confirmed murder weapon, and (in the count of murder of a fellow wizard) there was no proper body, which makes for a very flimsy case indeed.

Back in Gryffindor Tower, the portrait swings closed, and Moody gives the Tower a final sweep to confirm there are no lingering students before he turns to the others. 'Right, then. Let's get on with it.'  
  
Moody leads the way up the boys' stair, Kingsley at his shoulder. It's a tight spiral, none of the doors to the bedrooms within sight of each other (perfect for an ambush, though a killer would have to be careful not to lose their footing on the well-worn stone steps, and with his magical eye Moody would see them coming). There is no sign of a scuffle on the stairs, though, nor in any of the other dorms they pass on the way up (unless one counts the usual chaotic mess characteristic of teenage wizards-- Moody notes some especially potent spell residue within the fifth-year dorm, though it's simply _strange_ rather than Dark, most likely a spell misfire from someone revising for OWLs, or perhaps a particularly exuberant prank). The third-year dorm (where the body was found) is located at the very top of the spiral staircase, with no further levels above this final landing.

The door is propped open, with what appears to be pumpkin seeds scattered across the threshold. Moody steps over them, and examines the crime scene properly for the first time (he'd had a quick preliminary look through the walls, naturally, but he doesn't like to count it until he's had an unobstructed view from both eyes). Moody paces across the room, snapping a few wide-angle photographs of the full scene, then motions to where the others are stood behind him and grunts, 'Lupin, come here-- can you identify this man?'

Moody hears a small intake of breath from Lupin, and can hardly blame the younger man. The body is a grisly sight, with the blood soaked through the front of the man's ratty robes not yet dry. He's noticeably shorter than average, with a small pointed nose and a distinct overbite, and appears to have recently lost quite a lot of weight; Moody would guess that he'd been ill for months before his death, with sagging greyish skin and dull blond hair that's gone nearly bald on top (though Moody wouldn't put his age past forty at the absolute oldest, and more likely mid-thirties). He watches Lupin, taking in the man's reaction-- he looks about to throw up.

Minerva McGonagall conjures a glass and fills it with a tap of her wand before passing it to Lupin, who accepts it gratefully. He sips from it, then clears his throat. 'That's-- that is Peter Pettigrew, sir. I'm quite sure of it.'

'And before today, you were unaware that Pettigrew had survived the attack twelve years ago?'

Lupin nods, his face pale. 'I... had no idea... I never would have considered it.'

Moody stoops to examine Pettigrew's right hand, which is missing its index finger, the stump smoothly healed over-- a detail which Lupin has evidently noticed too. He snaps a photograph of this detail, and one of the knife. '...As a former friend of Pettigrew's, can you think of any place he might have used as a hideout for the last twelve years? Someplace he was particularly familiar with, would have felt confident that no one would find him.'

Lupin shakes his head slowly. 'I don't really...' He frowns. 'Peter knew Hogwarts rather well, though I doubt he would risk using it as a hiding place-- not for that long.'

Moody chews his lip, then straightens up and turns back to Lupin. 'And I'm to understand he was a Gryffindor?' Lupin nods, and Moody presses on, 'To your knowledge, did Pettigrew ever know of any alternate means in and out of this tower-- a means by which he might have circumvented the portrait entirely?'

'I'm quite sure he didn't,' says Lupin. 'If he had... the rest of us would have known about it too.' Lupin pauses. 'The windows can be opened, but they latch from the inside and are warded against unlocking charms, and it's a sheer drop outside-- Peter was always afraid of heights; he couldn't even fly a broom.'

Moody spins his eye to look out through the walls; Lupin is quite right about the steep drop of several storeys, which many would find vertigo-inducing. 'Hmm. Is there _anyone_ you can think of who might have known he was alive? Who would have helped to hide him, or perhaps detained him by force?'

'No,' Lupin says, very certain this time. 'I truly can't imagine where he went, or why-- I was one of his closest friends, the only one he had left, so I don't understand why he never... but then, I can't think of any reason why he might have been detained by force, either. To my knowledge, his involvement during the war was largely passive.'

This last is more a question than a statement, though, and Lupin and Moody both cast pointed looks at Albus, who quirks a snowy eyebrow. 'Professor Lupin is quite right,' he says. 'Young Pettigrew was never the best at duelling; I thought it prudent that his skills be applied elsewhere, away from the front lines.'

'Interesting,' Moody grunts, looking between them. 'Can you shed any light on what his motives might have been for faking his own death?'

Albus shakes his head, his gaze dropping once again to Pettigrew's missing finger. 'Alas, your guess is as good as mine, Alastor.'

Moody fixes his gaze on Lupin, who looks very bleak and (once again) rather ill. 'No. Not at all.' He stares down at the body, and says as though to himself, 'His mother wasted away, consumed by grief.' 

'Mmh,' Moody grunts-- there is something less than positive hidden behind Lupin's carefully moderated tone and neutral expression-- disgust, perhaps, or betrayal; a cold sort of anger. Moody saves the observation for later. 'Well, Lupin, Auror Shacklebolt will take down your initial statement, and then you're free to go. Be advised that we may contact you later for further questioning.'

Kingsley escorts the man out, and Moody turns back to examine the scene of the crime in greater detail.

The first thing to jump out at him is the _lack_ of spell residue here-- Moody paces around the perimeter of the room, and even checks the adjacent washroom, but there is no sign of magical forced entry, nor any violent spellwork at all. The killer had used a knife for the murder itself (that much is obvious) but Moody had expected to find _some_ trace, as it's very rare indeed for a wizarding murder to be committed entirely in the Muggle way, particularly when the location so thoroughly rules out a Muggle perpetrator. He supposes that the killer may have been a squib or otherwise unable to use magic at the time, though Moody can't rule out the possibility that this method was chosen deliberately, in order to mask any magical trace that could lead back to the culprit. The excessive stab wounds indicate an aggressive and frenzied attack-- the killer had gone after Pettigrew specifically, and had carried out the murder in a highly emotional state.

For the moment, Moody sets aside the mystery of how (and why) they got in, and reconstructs the action based on his observations-- there had been a struggle, knocking over the boy's trunk and slashing the drapes and bedding, before Pettigrew was shoved back onto the bed. The killer (who must have been at least somewhat taller than Pettigrew, though this isn't saying much) had grasped Pettigrew by the collar of his robes, kneeling over him and pinning him down while stabbing him. Going by the scattering of nicks across Pettigrew's hands and arms, he had tried to fend his attacker off, to no avail.

Moody turns back to the room at large. 'Was Pettigrew left-handed?'

'Yes, I believe so,' Minerva McGonagall confirms. 'He was prone to smudging his essays-- his hand and sleeve were always covered in ink.'

'And Sirius Black?'

Minerva pauses. 'That's right... Black was left-handed as well. You don't think that _he_ was here?'

'Can't rule anything out just yet,' says Moody briskly. 'I've yet to see any evidence that definitively proves Black was the perpetrator here.' What he _does_ know is that the killer used their left hand-- the angle of the knife-wounds and the way Pettigrew's robes were grabbed near his collar would have been highly uncomfortable (if not impossible) for a right-handed person... and while he's reasonably sure that Pettigrew could not have killed himself, him being left-handed supports Moody's theory that he severed his own finger (the index on his right hand) in a deliberate attempt to feign his own death.

Black would certainly be the most convenient option, but that theory presents its own challenges-- namely, that the whole castle is on high alert for any sign of his presence, and it's highly unlikely that he could have got in and out entirely unnoticed-- at least, not without inside help.

Moody turns to McGonagall (the only other person remaining, as Albus had excused himself a moment before to check on the students in the Great Hall). 'Who all has access to this tower normally, aside from the Gryffindors?'

'Myself-- as Head of House-- and Albus, of course, though any of our Professors could have easily acquired the password as well. Additionally, there's Poppy Pomfrey, our Healer, and the caretaker Argus Filch and the house-elves.' 

So it could have been almost any adult in the castle, or any of the older students for that matter-- the killer (and Pettigrew) might have glamoured of Polyjuiced themselves to look like students, or used invisibility cloaks or spells, and hidden within the Tower until all the students had gone-- perhaps the killer was originally Pettigrew's ally, and the pair had come to this particular room to search for something (or perhaps to set a trap for Harry Potter or one of the other boys) and there had been a disagreement resulting in Pettigrew's death...

'Whose bed is this?' he asks, pointing at the body. 'Potter's?'

'No,' says McGonagall, indicating one of the other beds. 'Harry Potter sleeps there. This bed belongs to Ron Weasley-- Arthur and Molly's youngest son.'

Moody would have to question Arthur about Pettigrew, and perhaps his wife as well. It seems a long shot, but there's always the possibility that this was intended as a threat against Arthur... 'And the Weasley boy was the first to discover the body?'

'That is correct. Potter heard him scream and raced up the stairs to help, along with their other friend, Hermione Granger.'

'The same three who were up there when we arrived?' McGonagall nods to confirm this, and Moody continues, 'And the dog?'

'A stray that Potter found-- he claimed that the three of them had returned to the dormitory to ensure the dog was safe, as it would have been in the room when the incident occurred. It was hiding under Potter's bed when Albus and myself arrived.' She pauses thoughtfully. 'I don't suppose there is a spell that might be used to examine the dog's memories?'

'Regrettably, no-- forcible memory examination risks permanent damage to the subject's mind, and has never been tested on animals.' A shame, as the dog is evidently their only witness. 'Moreover, extracted memories-- human or otherwise-- are not accepted in evidence, as they are far too easily tampered with and can be fabricated entirely.'

McGonagall hums in agreement, and falls quiet again as Moody pulls out a notepad and begins to take down his observations.

A moment later, Kingsley returns, with a message from Dumbledore-- a set of spare rooms not far from Gryffindor Tower have been readied for their use, including living quarters with two small bedrooms and a private washroom, as well as a disused classroom for their base of operations and a small adjacent office that should prove useful for conducting interviews. They cast a potent Stasis Charm over the scene to preserve Pettigrew's body, and Moody sets several highly complex wards and alarm spells over the dorm's windows and door, and booby-traps the stairs on the way out, just to be safe.

There will be a lot to do come morning, but for the moment they will retreat to their rooms and compare notes on the case thus far.

\---

Back in the Hospital Wing, it takes very little time for Madam Pomfrey to notice Grim-- after administering Calming Drafts to the trio, she looks pointedly between the dog and Harry. 'Potter, that dog--'

'Oh, do you think you might have anything for him?' Harry says quickly. 'Some food and water, at least, if the healing potions and spells don't work on dogs.'

Madam Pomfrey sighs. 'This is an infirmary, Mr Potter, not a menagerie.'

'And he's _sick_ , isn't he? Look at how _thin_ he is, and he was probably more scared than any of us were since he was stuck in there when it happened.' Madam Pomfrey gives the dog a long look, and Harry continues, 'Professor McGonagall said he could stay with me.'

Madam Pomfrey presses her lips into a thin line, but chooses not to challenge this rather brazen claim. '...Very well.' She summons a clean shallow bowl from her office, and fills it with a tap of her wand. 'I shall have something brought up from the kitchens, and I'll see what I can do for him once I've finished with the three of you.' She glances between them, then passes Harry the dish with a slight nod. 'For now, see if you can get him to drink some of this, while I attend to Mr Weasley.'

Harry accepts the bowl of water, setting it on the floor next to the bed he's been assigned and crouching down beside the dog. 'Here, boy,' he says quietly, reaching out to pat Grim's head. 'I'm sure you'll feel better if you have a good drink...' This was always the case for Harry, anyway-- he would feel terrible after being locked in his cupboard for hours on end, and always felt better after he slipped out at night to drink some water from the tap...

Grim laps delicately at the water-- almost as though he's self-conscious at being watched, which of course is ridiculous. Harry waits a moment, and then says, 'I don't suppose they'll actually let me keep you-- dogs aren't allowed, you see. But I'm sure you'll get on all right with Hagrid; he's--'

Harry breaks off as Grim's head jerks up; the dog whimpers and shakes himself and then shifts closer, his thin side pressed against Harry's shoulder... as though to say he doesn't want to go.

'...Are you sure you wouldn't like to live with Hagrid? He's got a big dog of his own called Fang, who's a bit loud at first but really quite sweet once he's settled down. Er, as long as you don't mind being drooled on, anyway, but you're a dog too so I don't guess that's something dogs really think about...'

Grim turns and licks Harry's cheek.

'Well, if you're dead set on staying I suppose I can try,' Harry says dubiously. 'McGonagall's really strict though, so I can't make any promises--' Harry sits up straighter, giving the dog his most serious look. 'And you'll have to take a bath.' 

Based on Harry's (admittedly limited) experience, most dogs hate baths, but Grim's ears perk up and he barks softly, his tail wagging.

'Oh-- d'you like baths then?' he asks with a touch of relief-- but perhaps it's not so surprising; Harry would want one too if _he_ was that filthy. 'That's good; maybe we can--'

Grim looks up with another small bark, and Harry notices Madam Pomfrey watching them with something approaching fondness. 'Er--'

Madam Pomfrey steps forward briskly and presses her wrist to Harry's forehead. 'How are you feeling, Mr Potter?'

'Er, fine?'

Grim huffs out a breath, as though to express his doubts. Madam Pomfrey doesn't seem to believe him either, and clicks her tongue. 'Well, you've had your Calming Draft,' she says, 'and I have a Dreamless Sleep potion for you here-- I would advise that you take this before going to sleep.'

Harry glances over at his friends-- Ron has taken his potion already and is bundled up beneath his blankets, while Hermione is sat up in bed reading a book (which she has seemingly summoned out of nowhere, as Harry is quite sure she wasn't carrying any books when they left the Tower). He turns back to Madam Pomfrey. 'Thanks, I guess-- but Grim really needs medical care more than I do right now.'

At this, Grim gives him a dirty look, and Harry once again wonders just how much the dog understands. 

'I suppose I could try a diagnostic spell on him,' Madam Pomfrey begins, drawing her wand out of its wrist-holster-- but Grim lets out a distressed whine at the sight of the wand and nearly knocks over his water dish in his haste to retreat under the bed. 

'I don't guess he likes magic much,' Harry offers. 'Whoever his old owners were... I reckon they weren't very kind to him.'

Grim lets out another whimper, as though in agreement. Looking at him, it would be hard to think otherwise.

Madam Pomfrey hums thoughtfully. 'In that case, I suppose you'll have to wait until Hagrid can see him. He may need a special diet to bring him back up to a healthy weight-- likely some nutrient replenishing potions, and perhaps something for parasites as well.'

'Is there any medicine you can give him right now?'

'I'm afraid it wouldn't be wise to give him anything before he's had a proper examination,' Madam Pomfrey explains, 'but we'll get him some food, and he should keep until tomorrow.'

Harry nods, chewing on his lower lip. 'Would it be all right if I gave him a bath?' he asks, remembering Grim's earlier enthusiasm at the prospect. 'Only I reckon it'd help me as well, to look after him, and... get my mind off things.'

Madam Pomfrey regards him for a long moment. 'Very well. Though I expect you to go straight to bed afterwards, Mr Potter. No other funny business.'

'Right, of course not,' Harry says innocently. 

They head to one of the washrooms off the main infirmary, where (much like in the dorms) there are individual locking shower cubicles, each containing a small changing area with shelves and hooks for clothes and towels outside the shower itself. Grim doesn't seem bothered by the lack of bathtubs, and Harry goes to turn on the water, adjusting it so that it's warm but not too hot.

Grim is certainly the most patient and well-behaved dog Harry has ever seen (even allowing Harry to rub some shampoo into his fur) but that doesn't stop him from repeatedly shaking himself out-- it almost becomes a sort of game, Harry laughing and dodging the spray and struggling to keep his glasses from fogging over, while Grim seems set on leaving him as thoroughly drenched as possible. By the time the water runs more or less clear, Harry's robes are soaked clear through, and he gratefully accepts the clean pyjamas provided by Madam Pomfrey. Grim devours a bowl of unseasoned chicken just outside the door while Harry has a quick shower of his own, and is waiting when Harry emerges, leading the way back out into the ward.

Hermione has gone to sleep as well, and Madam Pomfrey stops by to ensure that Harry drinks his dreamless sleep potion before extinguishing the lamps with a wave of her wand and returning to her office. Grim settles down at Harry's feet, and Harry can just make out the dog's quicksilver eyes in the dark as he drifts off to sleep.


End file.
